


Where All This Began

by MargueriteSomebodyoranother



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anniversary, Canon-Typical Violence, Could be canon-compliant if you squint, Declarations Of Love, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, No Smut, POV Alternating, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Talking, brief mentions of drug use, brief mentions of suicidal ideation, johnlock anniversary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:54:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29075163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargueriteSomebodyoranother/pseuds/MargueriteSomebodyoranother
Summary: “It always comes back to Bart’s, doesn’t it?” John asked. “It’s where we met," he waved his hand around.  "where all this began."“And where we end,” Sherlock finished for him.John nodded. “Yeah, where we end,” he said.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47
Collections: Johnlock Anniversary - January 29th





	Where All This Began

**Author's Note:**

> This fic assumes that Sherlock had never told John about why he jumped, or what happened when he was away. 
> 
> I'm still new to writing, and I argued with this fic for a while before I posted it in defiance anyway.

“What the _hell_ Sherlock?!”

The roof access door flew open, swinging wildly as it slammed against its frame with so much force, Sherlock half expected that John had torn it from its hinges as he burst through. Sherlock would have avoided rooftops altogether - they lost their allure when he had to jump off of one - but Molly’s attempts at conversation down in the lab, all while surreptitiously making sure Sherlock wasn’t getting involved in something even remotely intellectually stimulating, was grating on his nerves. He just wanted a moment of solitude, an opportunity to feel maudlin without anyone intruding, asking him to talk about his feelings and trying to keep him distracted with inane conversation. Today, of all days, finding solitude in the roof of Bart’s, rather than down below, was the kind of morbid irony he would have enjoyed with John, once.

John, who was charging at Sherlock whilst bellowing like a madman.

Sherlock couldn’t keep from flinching at the startling violence of John’s entry, but John didn’t notice it anyway. Sherlock had enough time to slide his face behind a mask of indifference and school his body language into feigned nonchalance before the raging hurricane that was John Watson barreled across the roof to where Sherlock was leaning against the ledge. Thankfully, he had time to enjoy one last fortifying drag from his cigarette before John grabbed him by the arm and yanked him up so abruptly, he nearly stumbled.

Sherlock looked over the man as he regained his balance, noting the crumbs on his jumper ( _ate while walking_ ), the mud on his shoes ( _Regent’s park, walking the trails_ ), grass stains on his jeans ( _grass stains? Ah, feeding the ducks, you really shouldn’t do that, John_ ). _At the park with Rosie, then. How did he know…? Oh_ , Sherlock thought. _Molly Hooper. She must have noticed my absence from the lab and figured out where I went, and called John. Dull._

Sherlock allowed John to drag him away from the ledge, and slam him against the door John had just burst through, his still-aching ribs protesting the violent treatment. The air left his lungs in a pained grunt as he lifted his arms instinctively to protect his recovering body, still weakened from withdrawal and John’s brutal assault at the morgue, but the doctor was too incandescent in his rage to notice.

Not just rage, _panic_.

_Of course John would think I was going to jump off the roof_. To be fair, Sherlock not only had no intention of jumping, he also had no intention of letting anyone find him here. He took it as an indicator of just how poorly he was doing these days, that he allowed the situation to spiral so far out of control already. All he’d wanted was some quiet and a damned cigarette!

“You don’t get to do this, you stupid, fucking _idiot_!” John panted. “I’m not going to let you jump again! Just what the _hell_ did you think you were doing?”

John sucked in huge gulps of air, already winded from running up the stairs and across the roof, his shouting warring with his need to catch his breath. His face was mere inches from Sherlocks, and his fingers clawed into his chest as he shook Sherlock by his lapels. He was certain John had actually popped a button or two when he gripped his shirt, but that was inconsequential at the moment.

“What does it look like, John? I’m having a smoke!” Sherlock replied, his own hands grasping Johns and wrenching them away, ignoring the sound of tearing fabric. It didn’t matter, the shirt was a loss anyhow.

“Up _here_ , you wanker!?” John shouted in disbelief.

“I needed to think-”

“Like hell you needed to think, you _sick fuck_!”

John let loose a string of expletives in a particularly colorful combination that Sherlock had never even heard before. He took a moment to study John’s face, a subject he found endlessly fascinating, especially when John was infuriated like this. The wind was whipping his hair into his eyes, longer than he usually kept it, but Sherlock supposed that a recent widower would hardly have the time to find a decent barber when juggling the demands of long hours at work and tending to an infant. His eyes were flashing, the cobalt blue vibrant against the gray background of cloud cover behind them; his mouth was parted as he continued to pant in loud gasps, and every muscle and sinew in John’s body was tense, like a violin string ready to snap. John was definitely angry, and he looked _magnificent_ for it.

Sherlock was familiar with Angry John, though he enjoyed it more when John’s wrath was aimed at a criminal suspect rather than him. It was all he had seen of the man since Mary died, except when he held him in his arms as he broke down after confessing his infidelity to Mary. Sherlock was convinced it was all he would ever see. John had been avoiding his shift in the rota of minders organized to keep him off the sweeties, so to speak. Sherlock despised being handled like a dim-witted child, but he convinced himself to endure the indignity if he could spend time with John. But John routinely switched his shift, avoiding Sherlock altogether, and it didn’t take a consulting detective to deduce that the friendship John and Sherlock had shared was well and truly over.

It’s partly why he was on the roof today. It was the 29th of January, the anniversary of when he and John met. Sherlock never intended to allow sentiment to rule his head, but he could not refute the evidence that he had worn his heart on his sleeve for years. It shouldn’t have been surprising at all that Moriarty had seen it. Hell, most likely everyone had seen it, and would have recognized it for what it was if they only _noticed_. Sherlock couldn’t blame them - he, the Most Observant Man in London, saw but did not observe. It seemed poetic that both men should be here now, at Bart’s where it all began, only to witness its ending on the anniversary of its beginning. In truth, it ended with a dive off this roof years ago, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to admit it before now.

He was sick of it all - the apologetic looks his friends gave him when they would show up in John’s stead, the feeble attempts at distraction when they would play board games as if they were imparting some grand favor, the endless platitudes and coddling. He knew that he was diminished in their eyes. They didn’t see the man who took down Moriarty’s global network, who was _brilliant, fantastic,_ and _amazing_. Maybe they never did. Maybe that was just John. However they saw him before, now they saw him as too fragile to handle being abandoned by his best friend.

Again.

Sherlock Holmes is many things, but weak is not one of them, and he’s tired of being handled.

With a snarl, Sherlock tore away from John, and braced himself for John’s attack. If there was one thing he was more tired of than pitying looks from his minders, it was John’s need to beat him. He could understand John’s reaction when he interrupted his proposal dinner at the Landmark with a fake accent and drawn-on mustache - it was actually the kind of reception he expected, though he had hoped for a different kind of reunion. He even understood why John beat him so viciously at the morgue. Sherlock knew he deserved it for failing John and allowing Mary to die. He expected violence from John; it was in his nature. But now? _No._ Sherlock was willing to do anything for John ( _hadn’t he always done?_ ), even bearing the brunt of John’s anger and blame as he grieved. But, this was not grieving. This was John wanting to control, claiming a right to reward and punish as he saw fit, and that is just not on. Sherlock was done sacrificing himself on the altar of John Watson.

John wasn’t expecting Sherlock to fight back, and the two men traded punches and grappled on the roof before John knocked Sherlock onto his back, who proceeded to kick John’s legs out from under him. John may have been a soldier, but he had been a civilian for years now, and his alcoholism has taken its toll. Sherlock’s health wasn’t much better, but he had been trained in martial arts since well before he met John, and fighting for one’s life every day for two years tended to hone one’s skills. John ended up on his back, trapped under Sherlock, with the taller man pinning his arms down with his knees as his hands gripped John’s face. Sherlock locked his eyes onto Johns, spittle spraying from his face as he yelled.

“John! John, stop this!”

John stopped struggling, glaring balefully at Sherlock as his chest heaved after his exertion.

“I. Will not. Jump.” Sherlock emphasized each word with a shake to John’s head. “I’m going to let you up now, and you’re not going to lay a hand on me again, or I will put you back down here and keep you here until you settle down. Is. That. Clear?”

John continued to glare, but gave Sherlock the slightest nod. The brunet let go of the older man, and scooted off the prone body of John Watson.

He sat with his back against the door, panting after his exertion, knees drawn to his chest and arms wrapped around them as though he was holding himself together. His ribs were protesting quite loudly their harsh treatment, but Sherlock paid them little mind. John sat up and scooted next to Sherlock, legs stretched out in front of him. He dusted off his palms, and took several controlling breaths to try to calm his own breathing. It was several minutes before he broke the silence.

“What, the fuck, are you doing up here?” he asked, his voice cracking at the end.

“I just came up here to think, John. I didn’t realize Molly would call you and tell you where I was.”

“How did you…?” John began. Then he snorted in weak disbelief. “You know what, never mind. Yeah, Molly called me. Told me that she followed you up here.”

Sherlock wondered how Molly could have followed him without him realizing it, but he was distracted, after all. He supposed anything was possible. Molly was one of two people who could surprise Sherlock. The other was John.

“I used to like rooftops,” Sherlock said, looking out over the London skyline. “The view. The solitude. The silence. Helped me think. I’ve avoided them since that day, you know.”

John looked over the London skyline as well, taking in the tall buildings, the smoke curling from various chimneys. Sherlock wondered if John saw the battlefield, or something else, when his eyes scanned the distance like that.

“It always comes back to Bart’s, doesn’t it?” John asked. “It’s where we met," he waved his hand around. "Where all this began."

“And where we end,” Sherlock finished for him.

John nodded. “Yeah, where we end,” he said.

John’s words left him empty, the finality of his tone seeping into Sherlock’s body, replacing bone and blood and sinew with a vast nothing. _Nature abhors a vacuum_ , some distant part of Sherlock’s mind whispered to him. _I wonder what I’m going to be filled with now_?

“It’s a fitting day for it, the end of an era,” Sherlock replied, vaguely amazed that his voice was as steady as it was. “It’s the 29th today.”

“The day we met,” John said.

Sherlock nodded.

The two men sat in pensive silence for several minutes, each man wrapped in a cloak of their own dark thoughts. Sherlock imagined that the weight of all their unspoken words sank between them like pavestones, rising like a dividing wedge, leading them to their own appointment in Samarra. He supposed it was inevitable, in a way. Their fate was sealed the moment he caught Moriarty’s attention. He wondered if he should have shot the semtex vest in the pool that night, when he discovered that John was the fifth pip. When he realized he loved him. It wouldn’t have made much difference in the end, losing John then versus losing him now. But John was never Sherlock’s to lose, and he had Rosie now. Contemplating their mutual demise even as a mental exercise was probably a Bit Not Good.

Not that John would be around to remind Sherlock whether something was good or not.

John shifted his weight next to Sherlock, his shoulder almost touching the brunet’s. Sherlock wondered if John noticed.

“You never did tell me why you did it, you know." John cast a furtive glance at Sherlock before returning to the London skyline. “Why you jumped off this roof.”

“You didn’t want to know how or why I did it. You just wanted to know why I left you to grieve.”

“It was a long time before I could come back here, you know,” John continued, staring straight ahead. He swallowed. “I used to see your blood on the pavement, even when there was nothing there. I would imagine it in the cracks, and was terrified that every time it rained, the last bits of you would be washed away.”

Sherlock imagined his blood like a bloom under the pavement, tiny molecules of him clinging to John as he passed over. He imagined little bits of him falling down to earth like rain, and wondered if it would be so bad, to end as little bits showering John, his atoms merging with John’s.

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t really matter now, I suppose,” John sighed. He looked over at Sherlock, then back down to his hands. Whatever he was going to tell Sherlock, he was uncomfortable with it. “I’m leaving London, you know. Too many memories. Too many pieces of Mary’s past life that might come back, like Ajay.”

“Where will you go?” Sherlock asked, his voice carefully blank.

John hesitated. “New Zealand, maybe. I liked it there when I visited that time, with Sarah. You remember Sarah, the one with the -”

“Chinese circus, yes,” Sherlock said at the same time John did. They both ducked their heads, smiling at the memory.

“Yeah. But,” John continued. “Don’t think that because I told you, I want you to follow, Sherlock. I mean it. I need a clean break from - all this.” From you, Sherlock heard what John really wanted to say. He felt bitterness in his throat like bile. How nice of John to pull his punches now.

“No, I won’t follow you.” Sherlock said, his voice low and nearly carried off by the wind.

“I don’t know what I’m going to think, knowing there’s no minion of Mycroft’s behind every CCTV camera.” Sherlock chuckled weakly, for John’s sake. Always for John, even if he didn’t feel like it, even if it felt like he was burning what precious little of him was left.

“So, we’ve got nothing to lose. Tell me about it.”

Sherlock was silent for a long time. The wind picked up a bit, tousled his hair into a frizzy mess. John didn’t think he was going to answer, and prepared to walk back his question when Sherlock spoke, his voice low and flat.

“Did you ever wonder why, before now? Why would I lie to you in that phone call? Even if I somehow suddenly lost half my intelligence, I’d still be more than capable of applying my intellect to proving my innocence.”

“Of course I did,” John replied, his voice harsh and rough. He shook his head, clinching his hand into a fist at his thigh. “I wondered every damn night, what I could have said or done to save you.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh, mouth twisting in a sneer at himself. “Every day I’d hear you, you know. Calling me an idiot for living an empty life in an empty flat, waiting for the right moment to empty my gun. Shows how big a fool I was.”

“It isn’t what I wanted, John.” Sherlock looked over at John, pretending that the tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes were from the wind and cold, rather than bitter memories. “We don’t do this. Talking. I wanted to tell you, to give you that one word you said you needed. But I didn’t. And after each day, each mission completed, it became harder to think about you and home and stay focused on what I needed to do.”

“Talk, then. Sherlock. I want - I want to clear the air before I leave. No regrets.”

“No regrets,” Sherlock repeated, the lie sitting on his tongue like so much ash. Sherlock was silent a moment more, before taking a deep breath through his nose, and opening the door to his Mind Palace to the room of Things That Hurt to Remember.

“I'm sure you’ve realized by now that I sent you away to Mrs. Hudson because I needed to meet Moriarty alone,” Sherlock began. John closed his eyes at the memory of the call that said that their landlady had been attacked. He nodded, unable to tell Sherlock to get on with it.

“I had hoped that you would remain there, at Baker Street, to protect her from any threats while I was occupied here at Bart's. I never meant for you to watch me jump.” John nodded, his face grim, his jaw set. He knew Sherlock was meeting Moriarty, and how that meeting ended, but he didn’t dare risk interrupting Sherlock, lest the story never be completed.

“We both underestimated him, Mycroft and I. We understood Moriarty's criminal genius, and his infatuation for me that went far beyond the criminal, or the platonic.” Sherlock raised one sardonic eyebrow. “However, we underestimated the depths of his insanity. That was something nearly entirely unpredictable.

“As I said once before, we devised thirteen possible scenarios for how this confrontation would end, and covered every contingency, except for one.” Sherlock shook his head, a humorless smile on his lips. “There’s always something. We both knew that Moriarty was untouchable by any law, and any successful action had to result in not only his demise, but his network of criminals as well. Moriarty knew this, which is why he intended my death that day as well. I didn’t realize the extent of what he would do to ensure his desired outcome.” He narrowed his eyes, which blazed with self-loathing. “I missed it,” he hissed.

Sherlock paused again, his normally piercing eyes were unfocused as he lost himself to his memories and self-blame, and John let him burn.

“John, we knew there was a significant danger to you, that Moriarty would use my friendship with you against me. He did say he’d burn my heart out.” Sherlock huffed a wet chuckle. “I thought he meant my reputation, my career. That’s why I thought I could beat him. If he didn’t know where my weaknesses were, how could he use them against me? I gambled, and I lost.

“There were three snipers that day, which I trusted Mycroft to find and eliminate. One for you, one for Mrs. Hudson, and one for Lestrade. Their orders were to execute you immediately should I fail to end my own life, complete Moriarty’s story.”

Sherlock heard John gasp.

“Did you really not know? Thought you’d have figured it out by now.”

“Not everybody can be a bloody genius like Sherlock Holmes!” John snapped, his breathing quickening.

“John, we don’t talk like this. I never intended for you to find out any of this, and -”

“You know what? No! No, Sherlock, we need to finish this. Clean slate, remember? So no more secrets, no more lies. Tell me.” John took a deep breath, held it, and released a few times to calm his heart rate back down. Once his breathing was back to normal, Sherlock raked his hands through his hair and continued.

“Mycroft’s men were dealing with the snipers, so there was no real danger, except for you.” Sherlock gave John a look he couldn't decipher. “When you left Baker Street and returned to Bart's, Mycroft lost the sniper who was assigned to you. I was already on the roof, and the plan was already in motion. He had no means of communicating your location to me, and therefore, the arrival of your sniper. Everything I did had to be careful and exact to ensure your safety.

“I didn’t realize the danger you were in until it was nearly too late.” Sherlock huffed another humorless laugh. “I thought I had beaten Moriarty, after he revealed the snipers and their targets, and that there was a code we could force him to use to call them off. But he was too unstable, too focused on procuring my own demise, and there was no scenario to account for the depths of his determination to resolve our 'final problem'.”

“So, to stop you stopping him, Moriarty blew his own brains out,” John finished for Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. “Imagine my horror when you got out of that cab. If you were here, then your sniper would be, too. If that sniper targeting you did not see me die, you would die in the street in front of me.”

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened as he leaned forward again, burying his head in his knees as if to protect himself from the memories of that day. When he spoke again, his voice was quivering, breathless and muffled.

“I had no alternative. To save your life, I had to die.”

John didn't move, didn't breathe, or blink. He was transfixed, the horror of what Sherlock revealed to him plain on his face. The look of horror morphed into sadness, and of course, anger.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John hissed. “I blamed myself, you know. Why did you let me grieve?”

Sherlock looked up and gaped at John, jaw slackened in disbelief. 

“Haven’t you been listening, John? The sniper still had you in his sights! I stalled for as long as I could to give Mycroft time to press any advantage, but in the end, I knew I had to enact the thirteenth scenario of our plan, to fake my death.” Sherlock’s eyes softened. “I may not have intended for you to see it, but I did need you to be convinced, or you would never have survived.”

Sherlock leaned back against the door once again, his head hitting the wood with a dull thud.

“It was a dangerous jump, John, even with all our precautions. There was only a 50/50 chance that I would survive it. I don’t remember much after falling, but I had to take some time to recover from the force of the landing. My first priority was to eliminate your sniper.”

John watched as Sherlock’s gaze turned feral. His cerulean eyes narrowed, his lips parted and he bared his teeth. John had seen that look, once, when Sherlock tossed the American out the window for harming Mrs. Hudson, during the case with Irene Adler. It was terrifying to be on the receiving end of that look.

“I wanted to tear him apart with my bare hands, John, but Moriarty's network was more vast than even Mycroft could imagine, and I was forced to readjust our approach.”

“I always wondered why he didn’t stay at the funeral,” John mused. “I punched him, you know. In the face. I hated him for telling Moriarty all about you. Was all that part of your plan, too?”

Sherlock huffed a laugh at the memory of Mycroft with a swollen nose, loo paper wadded in his nostrils, a line of blood down his stiff upper lip and into his mouth. He couldn’t recall the last time the British Government had looked so green. He never could stomach the sight of blood.

"Oh, no, he had that coming. Selling me off to Moriarty was Mycroft's big mistake." 

John chuckled a bit, too, no doubt remembering the look on Mycroft’s face when one punch from John Watson dropped him like a stone. The mirthful moment was all too brief, and John watched the smile fade from Sherlock's face as he continued.

“I wanted to meet you at the funeral,” Sherlock began. He knew that John knew he was there that day, he’d told him as much in the Underground case. He didn’t waste time with the details. “Afterwards, I was going to tell you everything. I just had to wait for everyone to leave. No witnesses. Despite Mycroft’s repeated assertions to the contrary, I was adamant that you know of our ruse as quickly as possible, so that you wouldn’t have to mourn any more than necessary.” Sherlock's eyes looked far away as he murmured “I honestly didn’t realize how strongly my death would affect you. I begged – begged Mycroft – to ease your obvious pain, but he received intelligence that meant my confession would make you a bigger target.”

“Why didn’t you tell me anyway?” John all but shouted. “Jesus, Sherlock, you were right there! You saw what you did to us, to me. Hell, you could have mentioned this at any time when you got back, but you didn’t. Why? Why didn’t you trust me with this?”

Sherlock drew himself to his full height as he stared down the stricken doctor. “You were less than receptive to my presence, John,” he rebuked. “My only concern was for your safety. Don’t you see? Moriarty had contingencies for his contingencies, and his network was massive! He wasn’t a spider - he was a hydra! For every sniper I eliminated, another would step up to fulfil the contract. They were standing orders, John! If at any point, I missed one link in the chain, you were at risk. To ensure your safety, you had to be seen to grieve, to convince the world that Sherlock Holmes was dead. I couldn't stop until I had destroyed the entirety of Moriarty's network!

“I wasn’t having fun,” he spat, “ I wasn't playing games. I ran and I ran, under constant threat – I traveled round the globe dismantling his work piece by piece. Mycroft assisted where he could, but...” Sherlock paused, debating on whether to continue.

“I was young, and foolish, and worked for Mycroft once, being recruited for the SIS when I was sixteen. But the work was tedious, so after I started using cocaine to alleviate the boredom, Mycroft arranged it so that I could leave.”

John remembered something Mary had said once, about agents not leaving, but getting retired. He shuddered in spite of himself.

“After my death, my status had to be reactivated. And they used me for other work while we waited for the right opportunity to take on another facet of Moriarty’s organization. The work was...messy.” Sherlock swallowed, the memories no doubt unpleasant. “I provided evidence to law enforcement to handle the arrests whenever I could, but usually, the right people - some entire governments, sometimes - were blackmailed or bought off. Prosecution would have been ineffective. I was left to handle things on my own. I had to ensure nothing could be traced back to me.”

Sherlock’s tone had flattened as he spoke, as if he was reading an incident report rather than detailing what he had done for two years. John recognized this tactic for what it was, and felt his heart clench for his (former?) friend.

Sherlock kept talking. His voice was getting hoarse, his throat dry, but it was as though a dam had been broken, and the words he never wanted to say never stopped pouring out.

“I spent years hunting, and being hunted. As I said, Mycroft assisted when he could, with clean-up, or funds, or medical intervention when necessary, but his involvement was very limited by design, and often I was left alone.” Sherlock made a pained face, then continued. “Approximately fourteen months into the operation, Mycroft’s own network was infiltrated, and entire operations were compromised. Even our emergency methods of contact were exposed, and I had to vanish completely, even from Mycroft. I couldn’t know who did it, whether it was one of Moriarty’s operatives, or someone related to the other jobs I was doing, but eventually, Mycroft found the leak -” Sherlock's voice trembled, recalling the betrayal “- but not before irreparable damage had been done.

“My cover was blown, but I wasn’t finished with the work yet. I had no choice but to continue, or those I love would never be safe.” Sherlock’s eyes grew haunted, his voice subdued and almost carried away by the wind. John had to strain to hear him. “I had resolved that I would most likely not survive my mission.” Sherlock gave John a sad smile. “I felt grateful, you know? That you had already mourned me. That if I died for real, it wouldn’t matter.”

“Of course it would matter!” John whispered fiercely, turning his whole body to face Sherlock. He lifted his hands to clutch him again, but hesitated and set them back on his lap instead.

“How?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and defeated. “You would never have known. But I still had incentive, you see? Even if I died, I didn’t die on that day, and you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would still be at risk. I couldn’t stop. I had to keep going, to finish this.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew far away, and John realized Sherlock was reliving those memories. His brow furrowed as if in pain, and John wanted so much to reach out and smooth away the wrinkles that appeared in Sherlock’s forehead with his fingers. John had fought in a war, but he always had support, even when he was bleeding out into the desert sand. He never had to wonder what it would be like to fight on his own, knowing he wouldn’t survive, but unable to stop until the end. He quelled his urge to touch Sherlock and forced himself to be still, and Sherlock continued.

“I got reckless,” he said, quietly. He shivered into his coat. “I grew sloppy, and I was captured by an obscure branch of Moriarty's cells in Serbia. The last one. They were trafficking stolen weapons and heroin, of all things. They almost weren’t worth it, the risk to you was miniscule, but it was still there. I had to eliminate it.

“My treatment at the hands of the Serbians was...less than hospitable. They knew I was a spy, they had been warned of my arrival, and knew I was a potentially high value target, but had no idea who I was working for or what I was after. Thankfully, they never associated me with whomever was responsible for bringing down Moriarty's web.”

“Sherlock-” John began, but Sherlock didn’t hear him, lost in memory.

“They were not as cruel as they could have been,” Sherlock mused, “though they certainly were inventive. It seems their focus was on causing pain and humiliation rather than a more permanent arrangement.”

John was no idiot. He knew what Sherlock was alluding to. John had seen examples of it in Afghanistan. He suddenly understood why Sherlock flinched at sudden movements and loud noise, why he always positioned himself near the exits, why he wore the Belstaff even when the weather was warm. Sherlock had been _tortured_. He was a doctor, for fuck’s sake! How could he have missed this?

_You see, but you do not observe._

“How soon then?” John asked instead.

“What?” Sherlock asked, confusion on his face as his reverie had broken and he lurched back to the present.

“How soon after Serbia did you come home?”

Sherlock looked away, trying to deflect the question. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“No, Sherlock, no more hiding. How soon after did you come home?”

Sherlock was quiet for a while. He looked up and gazed at the stars just appearing as twilight set in. He sniffled, nose red and dripping from the cold. “It was four days from when Mycroft retrieved me from the compound to when I met you at the restaurant.”

Mycroft retrieved him, meaning he couldn’t get out on his own.

“Four days. You had been sodding tortured and I hit you. Knocked you down.” John said this with unnatural calm, the only indicator that the soldier was beyond angry.

“It’s only transport, John, nothing serious-”

“It’s not only transport, Sherlock, _Jesus_!” John yelled. His eyes flashed with anger and pain.

“How long did they keep you? Hmm? How long were you stuck there?” John found he actually didn’t want to know. He didn’t want anyone to know how he got his bullet wound; he could imagine Sherlock wouldn’t want to talk about his war wounds, either. Instead, John asked a different question.

“Why didn’t we talk about this sooner?” he asked, tilting his chin down to try to prevent the tears from falling. The wind had grown sharper, and the tears would probably dry in their tracks.

“I didn’t want you to know,” Sherlock insisted. “I could endure many things, John, but your pity is not one of them. Besides, you had Mary.” Sherlock smiled sadly. “You had everything you wanted, a life that I could never give you.” Sherlock paused, carefully considering his words. “And I knew I could only be a part of your life if I provided the excitement and danger you needed. You are every bit the addict I am, John, only your drug of choice is adrenaline; you chase the high of cheating death.”

“That’s not all you are to me,” John breathed, numbed by Sherlock’s admission. “How can you say that? Do you honestly believe I’d use you for some fix, and leave you?”

“You did exactly that, John. And I don’t blame you.”

“No, Sherlock, you’re wrong-”

“Wrong? How am I wrong, Doctor?” Sherlock growled, his expression hurt and angry in the twilight. “You did exactly what I had hoped you would do. You moved on, forged a life for yourself. You had a chance to finally be happy, John. All you needed was me out of the way.”

“No, Sherlock-” John got up onto his knees and crawled in front of Sherlock, hands holding the brunet’s shoulders as cobalt eyes bore into cerulean ones. He took a deep breath. Sherlock had been honest with him, it was time for him to be honest in kind.

“Okay. My turn.” He took a deep breath. “I thought I loved Mary. I did. I do. She’s the mother of my child, and I will never, ever stop being grateful for Rosie, every day of my life. But …” John swallowed. Sherlock watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, unable to look into John’s eyes without revealing more than he had already. “But I loved you first, Sherlock. And Mary couldn’t handle it.”

John had expected Sherlock’s expression to go blank, prepared for the rapid blinking and stilted confirmation, but instead, Sherlock smiled, a sad, small smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“I know, John.”

“You know?’ he asked, flabbergasted. “What do you mean, ‘you know’?”

“I’d be a rubbish detective if I couldn’t read body language and facial expressions. I saw all the signs in you - elevated pulse, pupils dilating, lingering touches.” Sherlock felt bold, knowing that this conversation would be their last. He would not spare John Watson from his feelings; it’s not like he has anything else left to lose.

“You _wanted_ me, John. You were in love with me. Have been for years. You just never managed to admit it to yourself.”

John felt his face get hot, and he turned away from Sherlock to let the chill of the January wind relieve the heat in his cheeks.

“You knew,” John asked, though it was more like a statement.

“Yes. You weren’t exactly subtle about it. Why do you think everyone kept mistaking us for a couple?”

“You never denied it,” John deflected. “I guess it seems silly to you, but there’s no harm in telling you now, is there? Yeah, I loved you. Was in love with you.”

“Still past tense,” Sherlock stated. He knew the answer, he didn’t need to ask.

“Yeah, Sherlock. A lot has changed since then. Besides, it would have made you uncomfortable, anyway. Your body is only transport, and you’ve made clear what you think about love in general.”

John released Sherlock’s shoulders when they started to shake. Sherlock leaned his head back, laughing out loud, but the laugh wasn’t right. It was wet and sad and spoke of missed chances, and not enough time.

“I loved you from the start John. How can you not see it? “

John did see it, though. He saw it in a leap from Bart’s when Sherlock decided John’s life was worth more than his own. He saw it when Sherlock abandoned the Work to organize John’s entire wedding (and paid for the parts of it that John himself could not afford). He saw it in the coming back, even interrupting the proposal dinner, and coming back again after a gunshot wound to the chest. He saw it on the tarmac, when Sherlock threw his life away (again) for John to have the happy life he'd wanted with Mary. Oh, John could see it. He just chose to ignore it.

Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson.

Sherlock Holmes was _in love_ with John Watson, still.

And John had repaid that love with violence. He’d thrown his traumatized friend to the floor, he’d promised his dying friend that if he spoke again - saving John’s marriage! - that he would not need morphine. He beat him half to death and practically handed him gift-wrapped to a serial killer because he’d lost faith in him. John spent two years silently begging Sherlock not to be dead, and nearly as long treating Sherlock like he’d wished he were. For the first time, John could see past his own hurt, and see Sherlock’s.

His eyes filled with tears, and he let them fall. He needed Sherlock to see them. He didn’t have any words to say, but maybe his tears could say what he couldn’t. Maybe Sherlock would see them and understand.

Maybe he did.

Sherlock, voice hoarse from talking and lips tinted blue from the cold, decided to take the chance he should have taken years ago. John was leaving anyway, what did it matter if Sherlock got it wrong? He placed his hands on John’s face, thumbs wiping away the silent tears, eyes traveling from John’s eyes to his mouth. Sherlock leaned forward, begging to have this, just this once, and pressed his lips to the downturned corner of John’s mouth.

The kiss was achingly tender, and over too quickly, but John caught its meaning nonetheless. He leaned forward, chasing the dichotomy of Sherlock’s warm breath and his chilled lips as he backed away. John opened his eyes and stared, his brain and speech centers apparently offline.

“You’re leaving anyway, I had to try it the once,” Sherlock said by way of explanation, his voice soft and defeated.

_His voice had no business sounding that way_ , John thought.

“As goodbye kisses go, it was pretty rubbish,” John said. He hadn’t meant to say that, and the confused hurt that flashed across Sherlock’s face made his heart clench in his chest. “But as first kisses go…” John smiled, his eyes wet and face cold, but his insides felt warm, like he was full of honeyed sunlight. He felt sure the warmth had started radiating from him in dramatic beams. John grabbed onto Sherlock’s hand - his fingers were like ice - and kissed them before warming them with his breath.

“This doesn’t fix things, Sherlock,” he warned, “but I don’t want to give up on us before we give ourselves a chance.”

“I don’t want you to stay out of a sense of obligation, John,” Sherlock began.

“No, no pity, Sherlock.” John felt the quiver in his voice, his need to get this right thrumming like adrenaline in his chest. “I guess we were both too hurt to see what we were doing to each other. I was, and I’m sorry. I have so much to apologize for, I don't even know where to begin, but I’m sorry. I lied. I still love you, and I’m a crazy enough bastard to give us a try if you are.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, eyes thoughtful and contemplative. He didn’t remove his hands from John’s grip, however. He had a chance with John, if he chose to take it. After everything, there was still a chance. Sherlock wanted to feel hopeful, wanted just this once to embrace the sentiment, full-stop. His mind was already made up even before he could contemplate the alternatives, and he found that he didn’t care. He would take this risk.

“It’s our anniversary,” Sherlock said, lips curling up in amusement. “Happy anniversary, John.”

John shrugged his shoulders, a half-smile playing on his own lips. “Huh. People usually celebrate their anniversaries. What do you think we should do?”

Sherlock hummed for a moment, cocking his head in mock thought. Then he smirked, the mischievous one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and that John secretly adored.

“Dinner?”

“Starving.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on my [Tumblr!](https://margueritesomebodyoranother.tumblr.com)


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